poetryblogs

Campfire

The light fell on us
and you noticed how     
I had dropped the eye/I
to see 
without a maze of mirrors

I used to write
"you and I"
[self-reference is for famous poets?]
with regard to 
a Pozzo and a Lucky,
but as the language decreed,
the twigs had snapped
into the baritone of the firewood. 

yet
I seem to think
there is a little bit of "we" 
about us
in the bite of the fire--
we are together in chaos,
if not order. 








Exile

 There was a curve in the road
 Where I left you
 And then I suddenly became aware
 Of the public space floor;
 It was a desolate throat without water,
 It was blackened 
 At the same spot
 Every day
  
 By a man who differed with his left foot
 Or the woman whose trolley car had canines,
 I waited and absorbed the floor
 Like a sad old mop. 
  
 And the limbo before the sunset
 Did not itch the back of a woman
 Sprawled in the irony
 Of white sheets
 On the floor
 Without a mattress
 Without a cushion,
 Waiting to exile the land the next day,
 Sleeping on an airport.
  
 At that time,
 I felt as if I had forgotten to pick up my keys
 I walked as if weeded out 
 Mismatched
 Letting go of rubber bands
 Handbags, violins,
 Wondering to myself
 How odd it was to be alone
 With one’s own mind.
   

The metaphor of the bird

Image result for Lorena Pugh Surreal Oil Painting of Sheet on Clothesline in the Country
Lorena Pugh Surreal Oil Painting of Sheet on Clothesline in the Country

How many times have I
criticized the metaphor of the bird,
when my mother would say
how free
is she
and I’ll put my hand
upon my cold forehead,
It doesn’t ring right,
I tell her,
it is a projection into
wishful thinking.

It is unruly for you, I tell her,
to fly without airports,
immigration officers,
the office cicadas,
the old regular bloated system
to color within the lines,
the patterned sweat it brings upon your back,
the despair of
the black and white, dust-colored earth
that holds your feet.

I think of the rain–
often I wish to sink
in earth, in a paradox of
feeding back the fertility
with a gift of sleep,
and perhaps the satisfaction of
a life-long debt repaid
is the final flying.